
Glass _r_l ^ 

Book , i S ^ 

Copyright N? 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



SONGS OF THE 
PRAIRIE 



BY 
ROBERT J. C. STEAD 

Author of "PRAIRIE BORN." 



THE PLATT & PECK CO. 



^ 






^ 



Copyright 1912, By 
The Platt & Peck Co. 



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CCI.A3I2529 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Prairie i 

The Gramophone 4 

The Plow 8 

The Mothering * 2 

Hustlin' in My Jeans 15 

The Homesteader 20 

Vain Suitors 24 

God's Signalman 26 

Going Home 3 2 

Just Be Glad 38 

The Canadian Rockies 4<> 

A Prairie Heroine 42 

The Seer 51 

The Son of Marquis Noddle 56 

The Prodigals 62 

The Squad of One 6 4 

Alkali Hall ?° 

Prairie Born 7 

"A Colonial" 8l 

Little Tim Trotter 8 4 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Vortex 86 

The Old Guard gi 

Kid McCann 93 

Who Owns the Land ? 99 

A Race for Life 103 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE PRAIRIE 

The City? Oh, yes, the City 

Is a good enough place for a while, 
It fawns on the clever and witty, 

And welcomes the rich with a smile; 
It lavishes money as water, 

It boasts of its palace and hall, 
But the City is only the daughter — 

The Prairie is mother of all ! 

The City is all artificial, 

Its life is a fashion-made fraud, 
Its wisdom, though learned and judicial, 

Is far from the wisdom of God; 
Its hope is the hope of ambition, 

Its lust is the lust to acquire, 
And the larger it grows, its condition 

Sinks lower in pestilent mire. 

The City is cramped and congested, 
The haunt and the covert of crime; 

The Prairie is broad, unmolested, 
It points to the high and sublime; 



Songs of the Prairie 



Where only the sky is above you 

And only the distance in view, 
With no one to jostle or shove you — 

It's there a man learns to be true! 

Where the breeze whispers over the willows 

Or sighs in the dew laden grass, 
And the rain clouds, like big, stormy billows, 

Besprinkle the land as they pass; 
With the smudge-fire alight in the distance, 

The wild duck alert on the stream, 
Where life is a psalm of existence 

And opulence only a dream. 

Where wide as the plan of creation 

The Prairies stretch ever away, 
And beckon a broad invitation 

To fly to their bosom, and stay; 
The prairie fire smell in the gloaming — 

The water-wet wind in the spring — 
An empire untrod for the roaming — 

Ah, this is a life for a king! 

When peaceful and pure as a river 
They lie in the light of the moon, 

You know that the Infinite Giver 
Is stringing your spirit a-tune; 



Songs of the Prairie 



That life is not told in the telling. 
That death does not whisper adieu, 

And deep in your bosom up-welling, 
You know that the Promise is true! 

To those who have seen it and smelt it, 

To those who have loved it alone 
To those who have known it and felt it — 

The Prairie is ever their own ; 
And far though they wander, unwary, 

Far, far from the breath of the plain, 
A thought of the wind on the Prairie 

Will set their blood rushing again. 

Then you to the City who want it, 

Go, grovel its gain-glutted streets, 
Be one of the ciphers that haunt it, 

Or sit in its opulent seats; 
But for me, where the Prairies are reaching 

As far as the vision can scan — 
Ah, that is the prayer and the preaching 

That goes to the heart of a man ! 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE GRAMOPHONE 

Where the lonely settler's shanty dots the plain, 
And he sighs for friends and comradeship in 
vain, 

Through the silences intense 
Comes a sound of eloquence 
Shrilling forth in steely, brazen, waxen strain — 
The deep, resonant voice of Gladstone 
calling from the tomb, 
Or Ingersoll's deliverance before his 
brother's bier; 
Then a saucy someone singing, "When the 
daisies are in bloom," 
And the fife and drummers rendering 
"The British Grenadier." 

Back as far into the hills as they could get, 
They've a roof that turns the winter and the wet, 
They are grizzled but they're gay, 
They've a daily matinee, 
They are happy though they're head and ears 
in debt — 



Songs of the Prairie 



"I wish I had my old girl back again," 
"If the wind had only blown the other 
way," 
Uncertain voices join an old refrain 
And repeat the same performance every 
day. 

There's a Scotchman holding down a mining 

claim 
All unknown to Fortune, Influence or Fame, 
But a few of Harry's songs 
Are a solace for his wrongs 
And he sings them ev'ry evening in his "hame" — 
"I'm courtin' Bonnie Leezy Lindsay noo," 
"When I get back again" — you know 
the lilt— 
"We parted on the shore," "I'm fou', 
I'm fou'," 
"And that's the reason noo I wear the 
kilt." 

There's a son of Erin in Saskatchewan, 

He's at work a half an hour before the dawn, 

But before he goes to bunk 

He makes a table of his trunk 
And he sets his clock-work concert thereupon — 



Songs of the Prairie 



"The harp that once through Tara's halls," 

"St. Patrick's day in the mornin'," 
"The last rose of summer," and Fancy 
recalls 
A glimpse of his "Kathleen Mavour- 
neen." 

There's an Englishman who's living in a shack, 
He's a victim of the gramophone attack, 
With a half-a-dozen kids 
(He has half that many "quids") 
But he dances with the youngest on his back — 

Though he's living in the country of the 
Cree 
The horn that hangs a fathom from his 
head 
Stretches out a thousand leagues across 
the sea 
And sings in dear old London town 
instead. 

They are far from auditorium or hall, 

But their minds are still atune to Music's call, 

They can hear Caruso sing, 

Or the bells of Shandon ring, 
As they smoke and count the cracks along the 
wall. 



Songs of the Prairie 



I'm a miracle of eloquence imprisoned in the wax, 

I'm a mental inspiration operated by a spring, 

I'm a nightly consolation from Yukon to Halifax, 

And the ends of all creation sit and listen 

while I sing: 

I'm the Voice of all that man has sought 

and gained; 
I'm the throb of ei/ry heart that ever 
pained; 

I'm the Genesis of Fate, 
I'm the Soul of Love and Hate, 
I'm the humanly impossible attained! 



Sengs of the Prairie 



THE PLOW 

What power is this that stands behind the 

steel ? — 
A homely implement of blade and wheel — 
Neglected by the margin of the way, 
And flashing back the blaze of dying clay; 
Or dragging slow across the yellow field 
In silent prophecy of lavish yield, 
It marks the pace of innocence and toil, 
And taps the boundless treasure of the soil. 

Before you came the red man rode the plain 
Untitled lord of Nature's great domain; 
The shaggy herds, knee deep in mellow gras: 
The lazy summer hours were wont to pass; 
The wild goose nested by the water side; 
The red deer roamed upon the prairie wide; 
The black bear trod the woods in solemn might 
The lynx stole through the bushes in the nigh 

No sound of toil was heard in all the land ; 
No joyous laugh of voice or sharp command 

8 



Songs of the Prairie 



No cloud of smoke from iron funnels thrown 
Was through the autumn hazes gently blown ; 
No edge of steel tore up the virgin sod; 
No church its shining finger turned to God ; 
No tradesman labored over bench and tool; 
No children chattered on their way to school. 

But all the land lay desolate and bare, 
Its wealth of plain its forest riches rare 
Unguessed by those who saw it through their 

tears, 
And Nature — miser of a thousand years — 
Was adding still to her immense reserve 
That shall supply the world with brawn and 

nerve : 
But all lay silent, useless, and unused, 
And useless 'twas because it was unused. 

You came. Straightway the silent plain 

Grew mellow with the glow of golden grain; 

The axes in the solitary wood 

Rang out where stately oak and maple stood; 

The land became alive with busy din, 

And as the many settled, more came in; 

The world looked on in wonder and dismay — 

The building of a nation in a day! 



Songs of the Prairie 



By lake and river, rock and barren waste, 
A peaceful army toiled in eager haste ; 
Ten thousand workers sweating in the sun 
Pressed on the task so recently begun; 
Their outworks every day were forced ahead — 
And every day they gave their toll of dead — 
Until at length the double lines of steel 
Received the steaming steed and whirling wheel ! 

Where yesterday the lazy bison lay 

A city glitters in the sun to-day; 

His paths are turned to streets of wood and 

stone, 
And thousands tread the way he trod alone; 
The mighty hum of industry and trade 
Fills all the place where once he held parade, 
And far away the unheard river's play 
Makes joyous night still brighter than the day! 

Upon the plains a thousand towns arise, 
And quickly each to be a city tries ; 
The sound of trade is heard on every hand 
And sturdy men rise to possess the land; 
Awhile they lingered, thinking it a dream, 
But now they flow in a resistless stream 
That seems to fill the prairie far and near, 
Yet in its vastness soon they disappear. 

10 



Songs of the Prairie 



Where once the silent red man spurned the 

ground 
A land of peace and plenty now is found, 
A land by Nature destined to be great, 
Where every man is lord of his estate; 
Where men may dwell together in accord, 
And honest toil receive its due reward ; 
Where loyal friends and happy homes are made, 
And culture follows hard the feet of trade. 

This you have made it. Is it vain to hope 

The sons of such a land will climb and grope 

Along the undiscovered ways of life, 

And neither seek nor be found shunning strife, 

But ever, beckoned by a high ideal, 

Press onward, upward, till they make it real; 

With feet sure planted on their native sod, 

And will and aspirations linked with God? 



II 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE MOTHERING 

I had lain untrod for a million years from the 
line to the Arctic sea; 

I had dreamed strange dreams of the vast un- 
known, 

Of the lisping wind and the dancing zone 

Where the Northland fairies' feet had flown, 
And it all seemed good to me. 

At the close of a thousand eons of sleep came 

a pang that was strange to me; 
The pang of a new life in my breast, 
The swell of a vast and a vague unrest, 
And it thrilled my soul from East to West 
As it fluttered to be free. 

But I steeled my heart to the biped thing; of 

vast presumption he: 
He would lure my lonely thoughts away, 
He would sport himself on the sacred clay 
Where the dust of the prehistoric lay; 
But he scorned the soul of me. 

12 



Songs of the Prairie 



So I stretched my plains for a thousand leagues 

from the mountains to the sea; 
But he rolled them back with a steel-laid line, 
And he crumbled space by man's design 
And he filled his life with the breath of mine; 
But his love he gave not me. 

Then I called him foes from the farthest north 

and the snowflake fluttered free; 
But he took him trees I had given birth, 
And he delved him coal from my bowels of earth, 
And he laughed at me as he sat in mirth; 
But he cursed the cold of me. 

Then I cut him off from his fellow-men that his 

thought might turn to me; 
But he strung him a line of copper thread, 
And his fire-shod words swung overhead, 
By the fiend of air his thought was spread 
O'er hill, and plain, and lea. 

Then I gave him hopes he could not define and 

fears that he could not flee; 
And he heard my cry in the long, still night, 
In my spirit-thrall I held him tight 
And his blind soul-eyes craved for the light; 
But the light he could not see. 

13 



Songs of the Prairie 



So I held my peace till I saw him sit with chil- 
dren at his knee ; 
And I sent them the sun, the wind and the rain, 
And the ferny slope and the flowery plain, 
And the wet night-smell of the growing grain ; 
And their love they gave to me. 

In the last race-birth of the sons of men a travail 

holdeth me ; 
But out of the night of pain and tears 
A new life comes with the rolling years ; 
And I fondle the child of my hope and fears, 
And it seemeth good to me. 



H 



Songs of the Prairie 



HUSTLIN' IN MY JEANS 

Yes, I'm holdin' down the homestead here an' 

roughin' it a bit, 
It seems the only kind o' life that I was built 

to fit, 
For it's thirty years last summer since I staked 

my first preserve, 
An' I reckon on the whole I've prospered more 

than I deserve ; 
An' my friends kep' naggin' at me for to quit 

this toil an' strife 
An to settle in the city for the balance of my 

life, 
An' I ain't compelled to labor — I've cached a 

wad of beans — 
But I'm happier when I'm hustlin' on the home- 
stead in my jeans. 

I've tried to loaf an' like it an' I've tried to swell 

about 
Where the boozey run to red-eye an' the greedy 

run to gout, 

15 



Songs of the Prairie 



An' I've tried to wear a collar an' a fancy fly- 
net vest, 

An' I've tried to think it pleasant just to sit 
around an' rest ; 

An' I've mingled with the nabobs an' hee-hawed 
with other guys 

That were just as sick as I was of a life of livin' 
lies ; 

I've mingled in society an' peeked behind the 
scenes — 

An' I'm happier when I'm hustlin' on the home- 
stead in my jeans. 



Then I got the lust for roamin' an I rummaged 
round the earth, 

An' I got a big experience an' correspondin' 
girth, 

But the more I roved an' rambled the less I cared 
to live, 

An' I only kep' on goin' cause I'd no alternative ; 

I learned through tips an' tickets an' the jostle 
of the cars 

That I wouldn't trade a homestead for a conti- 
nent in Mars ; 

16 



Songs of the Prairie 



An' I bid good-bye to Fashion an' her social 

kings an' queens, 
An' I filed my second homestead an' I bought 

a pair of jeans. 

'Course it's sometimes kind o' lonely on the 
prairie here alone, 

When the night-time settles round you an' your 
thoughts are all your own, 

An' old faces flit before you like a flock o' homin' 
birds 

An' your heart swells with emotion that no man 
can put in words, 

An' you ponder on the Why-for, the Beginnin', 
an' the End ; 

An' you know the only things worth while are 
Family an' Friend — 

From the trifles of existence your better judg- 
ment weans, 

An' you get the right perspective on the home- 
stead — in your jeans. 

There are days the sweat-drops glisten on this 

sun-burned hand of mine, 
There are nights the joints go creakin' as I crawl 

to bed, at nine, 

17 



Songs of the Prairie 



But I hear the horses' stampin' and the rap of 
Collie's tail 

An' it minds me of the Eighties an' the Old Com- 
mission Trail — 

Of the days we pledged our future to a land we 
hardly knew, 

An' the men whose brave beginnings made pros- 
perity for you ; 

There are men now worth their millions I re- 
member in their teens. 

An' they made their start by hustlin' on the home- 
stead in their jeans. 



There are times when most folks figure that their 

life has been a blank; 
You may be a homeless hobo or director of a 

bank, 
But the thought will catch you nappin' — catch 

you sometime unawares — 
That your life has been a failure, and that no 

one really cares ; 
That the world will roll without you till the 

Resurrection morn, 
An' that no one would have missed you if you 

never had been born ; 

18 



Songs of the Prairie 



An' I give you my conclusion — all that livin' 
really means 

Is revealed to those who hustle on the home- 
stead in their jeans. 

Some day I reckon I'll cash in an' file another 
claim 

Where the wicked cease from troublin' an' the 
good get in the game; 

Where the pews are not allotted by the fashion 
of your dress, 

An' the only thing that figures is inherent manli- 
ness — 

Give me no silk-spangled horses an' no silver- 
plated hearse, 

But let some student preacher read a bit of 
Scripture verse, 

An' find a sunny hillside where the water-willow 
screens, 

An' plant me on the homestead where I hustled — 
in my jeans. 



19 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE HOMESTEADER 

Far away from the din of the city, 

I dwell on the prairie alone, 
With no one to praise or to pity, 

And all the broad earth for my own; 
The fields to allure me to labor, 

The shanty to shelter my sleep, 
A league and a half to a neighbor — 

And Collie to watch if I weep. 

Yes, this is my place of probation, 

Though woefully windy and bare; 
I am lord of my own habitation, 

I mock at the meaning of care ; 
For here, on the edge of creation, 

Lies, far as the vision can fling, 
A kingdom that's fit for a nation — 

A kingdom — and I am the king! 

The grasses aglare in the moring 
With crystalline radiance shine; 

The dew-drops are jewels adorning, 
Are jewels — and the jewels are mine; 

20 



Songs of the Prairie 



The heat of the sun when it shineth, 
The wet of the wind when it rains, 

Are balm to the heart that repineth — 
The Medicine Men of the plains! 

I follow the plow in the breaking, 

I tap the rich treasures of Time — 
The treasure is here for the taking, 

And taking it isn't a crime; 
I ride on the rack or the reaper 

To harvest the fruit of my hand, 
And daily I know that the deeper 

I'm rooting my soul in the land. 

They say there is wealth in the doing, 

That royal and rich are the gains, 
But 'tisn't the wealth I am wooing 

So much as the life of the plains; 
For here in the latter-day morning, 

Where Time to Eternity clings, 
Midwife to a breed in the borning, 

I behold the Beginnings of Things! 

When, reckless of time and of trouble, 
I watch till the water fowl comes, 

21 



Songs of the Prairie 



Or, picking my steps in the stubble, 
I steal where the prairie hen drums; 

When shooting the wolf in the brushes, 
Or spearing the pike in the stream, 

Or potting the crane in the rushes — 
Ambition seems only a dream. 

When darkness envelops creation, 

And shadows lie deep on the plain, 
I sit in my rude habitation 

And ponder my childhood again; 
Then voices come out of the distance, 

Far voices from over the sea, 
They call from the depths of existence — 

I know they are calling to me! 

The voices of song and of motion, 

The voices of laughter and light, 
They're calling from over the ocean — 

Oh, God ! could I answer to-night ! 
The voices of friend and of lover, 

The voices I knew in the past — 
I turn to my pallet to smother 

The thoughts that have found me at last ! 



22 



Sonrrs of the Prairie 



Greater than the measure of the heroes of re- 
nown, 

He is building for the future, and no hand can 
hold him down; 

Though they count him but a common man, he 
holds the Outer Gate, 

And posterity will own him as the father of the 
State. 



23 



Songs of the Prairie 



VAIN SUITORS 

You may tell in fondest phrases 
How Venetian glory raises 

Sunlit domes and basking marbles as her 
streets flow to the sea; 
Sing of Florence or Geneva 
Or the Bay of Naples; weave a 
Web of sentiment — but leave a 

Little sentiment for me. 

Where the warm Atlantic waters 

Lave your laughing sons and daughters 

By a hundred sunny cities where her tides 
flow full and free, 
Or on Caribbean beaches 
While the water pulls and reaches 
At your heart-strings — in your speeches 

Save a sentiment for me. 

San Francisco's golden fulgor, 
Catalina's horticulture, 

Every symphony of gladness, every gaiety 
there be; 

24 



Songs of the Prairie 



Every land and every nation 
Somewhere claim your admiration 
From your meed of approbation 
Save your fealty to me. 



Cloudless skies and peerless weather 
Link my hearts and homes together 

And the crisp, pure air of Winter vitalizes 
blood and brain ; 
Prairie breezes softly blowing, 
Wheat fields' rustle — cattle lowing — 
Broader visions coming — growing — 

Woo, O lands, ye woo in vain! 



25 



Songs of the Prairie 



GOD'S SIGNALMAN 

Well, no, I'm not superstitious, — at least, I don't 
call it that — 

But when someone spins a creepy yarn I don't 
deny it flat, 

For a man who spends a lifetime with the throttle 
in his hand 

Is bound to have adventures that he cannot un- 
derstand ; 

I sometimes think our knowledge here is but a 
sorry show, — 

We're only on the borderland of what there is 
to know. 

I used to think a man could know all things 

that could be known ; 
That he should not acknowledge any power above 

his own; 
That, however strange the circumstance, there 

always is a cause 
That is in complete obedience to some of Nature's 

laws; 

26 



Songs of the Prairie 



But I couldn't shake conviction off, no matter 

how I tried, 
And I've changed my way of thinking since the 

night that Willie died. 

Yes, Willie was my little son — my greatest 

earthly joy — 
And wife and I just kind o' seemed to dote upon 

the boy ; 
When I was out on duty she would hover round 

the lad, 
And treasure up his sayings to repeat them to 

his dad ; 
And every night, at lighting time, I knew that, 

without fail, 
His baby lips were praying for the man out on 

the rail. . . . 

Ah, well, for three short years we knew what 

such a treasure is, 
And we grew ever more attached to those sweet 

ways of his ; 
When one day, swinging through the gate, I 

saw, with blanching face, 
My wife as pale as ashes, and a doctor in the 

place. . . . 

27 



Songs of the Prairie 



I tried to go in steady, but my knees were knock- 
ing hard, 

And the light went out of heaven as I staggered 
up the yard. 

The doctor was a friend of mine, with children 

of his own, 
But he didn't need to tell me, for a blind man 

would have known 
By the labored, quick-caught breathing, and the 

little burning brow, 
That the Visitor was ready and was waiting for 

him now. 
We sat about his bedside in silent, deep despair, 
And the years rolled down upon us as we faced 

each other there. 

'Twas a little before midnight when a ring came 

at the bell, 
And the call-boy said, "Excuse me, sir, but I 

was sent to tell 
That Ninety-six is waiting, and there's no one 

else about ; 
They're expecting you to take her. If you don't 

she can't go out." 

28 



Songs of the Prairie 



I left the answer to my wife. With lips as white 

as snow, 
She whispered, "Do your duty," and I said, "All 

right, I'll go." 

My fireman knew my trouble, and in rough-and- 
ready way 

He let me know his heart was feeling things 
he couldn't say ; 

The night was dark and moonless, but the bright 
stars overhead 

Seemed to whisper to each other, "His little boy 
is dead." 

The very locomotive seemed to read my thoughts 
aright, 

And the monster sobbed in sympathy as we bul- 
leted the night. 

We'd been running fast and steady till a little 
after two ; 

All the passengers were fast asleep, except, per- 
haps, a few 

Who sat a-swapping stories in the smoker, when 
a sight 

Met my eyes that fairly froze my blood in terror 
and affright — 

29 



Songs of the Prairie 



For there, before me, standing in the halo of 

the light 
Was a little child outlined against the blackness 

of the night! 

Oh, I could not be mistaken, I would know him 
anywhere, 

With his father's mouth and forehead, and his 
mother's eyes and hair, 

And little arms outstretched to me that seemed 
to coax and say, 

"Come, Daddy, come and kiss me, for I'm going 
far away." 

I flung the brake and throttle, and amid the hiss- 
ing steam 

The vision grew, and waned away, and vanished 
as a dream! 

My fireman was beside me: "Your nerve is 

going, Jack ; 
Let's leave the engine here and take a walk along 

the track. 
The exercise will do you good." I followed as 

he led, 
Until we reached the gorge about a hundred 

yards ahead: 

30 



Songs of the Prairie 



The night wind cooled my temples as we walked 

the bridge upon, 
Till we sudden stopped with a sudden gasp — 

— THE CENTRE SPAN WAS GONE? 



You may call it hallucination, as some of the 

others do, 
But I know that the Master took my boy that 

night at half-past two; 
And the prayers of a hundred passengers had 

been offered up in vain 
Had his spirit, clad in his baby dress, not stood 

before my train. . . . 
I know I cried in my window-seat, and was 

otherwise ill-behaved 
But the life that I lost was more to me than all 

the lives he saved. 



31 



Songs of the Prairie 



GOING HOME 

The village lights grew dim behind, the snow 
lay vast and white 

And silent as an icy shroud spread out upon the 
night ; 

A wan moon struggled with the clouds and 
through the misty haze 

The trails that branched to left and right were 
tangled as a maze ; 

The settler's horses plodded in the soft, un- 
certain snow ; 

And, stealing cautiously behind, a Thing moved 
to and fro. 

The trail was little travelled, and the pale, sad, 

sickly light 
Was hindrance, rather than a help, to read the 

road aright ; 
A dozen miles lay stretched between the settler 

and his shack : 
He thought of many things that night — not once 

of turning back. 

32 



Songs of the Prairie 



Above the crunching of the snow he heard the 

rising wind, 
But never looked — and never saw — the Thing 

that stole behind. 

The trail was lost ; the horses took their way 

across the plain ; 
The settler strove to hold the course, but strove, 

alas, in vain ; 
The fickle wind seemed scarce to stay a moment 

at a place — 
Now howling in a rear attack, now snapping 

at his face; 
And nearing, leering, peering, in the ghastly, 

ghostly light, 
The Thing came softly after as it followed in 

the night. 

A light! a light! a welcome light gleamed 

friendly from afar: 
Oh, can it be — it cannot be — 'tis surely not a 

star? 
Nay, nay, it is more warm and near, a happy 

farmer's home 
That beckons to the wanderer, "You need no 

longer roam." 

33 



Songs of the Prairie 



With eager hope they hastened on, and plied 

across the plain; 
As often as the horses fell they rose to plunge 

again. 

The hours moved on, the miles moved on, they 
followed as a dream 

The waning light, the dying light, of that de- 
ceitful gleam, 

And when at last it seemed the place must almost 
be in sight, 

The light went out ! Oh, perfidy ! Oh, murder- 
ous, mocking light! 

'Twas well the ears grew deaf before the howling 
of the wind, 

Nor heard the ghoulish chuckle of the gloating 
Thing behind. 

The snow lay deep ; the horses floundered with 

the heavy sleigh, 
Till, plunging in a sudden drift, they tore the 

tongue away; 
The sleepy driver knew it not, as through his 

nerveless hands 
His hold on life was slipping with the frozen 

leather bands. 

34 



Songs of the Prairie 



The night was calm and beautiful, the frost had 

ceased to smart. . . . 
The Thing had lept upon him and zvas tearing 

at his heart! 



The room was warm and cosy, and the light 

was soft and low, 
Her presence seemed to radiate a tender, girlish 

glow, 
And when she placed her hand in his, the soft, 

caressing palm 
Was cure for every trouble, and for every pain 

a balm : 
And she whispered, "Sweet, my sweetheart, I'll 

be faithful, I'll be true; 
In the springtime, in the springtime, I will cross 

the sea to you." . . . 
A little bed was fashioned in the fitful firelight 

glow; 
A little boy was murmuring a prayer of long 

ago; 
And mother-hands upon his head, that fondled 

in his hair, 
And sense of quiet comfort and respite from 

every care ; 

35 



Songs of the Prairie 



And a pillow white and downy, and a hed so soft 

and deep, 
And tired lips were lisping, "Now I lay me 

down to sleep." . . . 



Again the scene was changed: A flood of mel- 
low, amber light. 

That filled the soul with ecstasy of infinite de- 
light ; 

While crystal-cadenced music tinkled through 
the yellow glow, 

The lullabies of childhood and the songs of long 
ago; 

The sea of God on every hand in silent silver 
lay: 

An atom fell : its circles spread through all 
eternity. 



The Thing was gone; its work was done; a 

lump of lifeless clay 
Sat crouching, crouching, crouching in the dawn- 
ing of the day ; 

36 



Songs of the Prairie 



The frozen eyeballs stared upon a wilderness 

of snow, 
And peered into the future, to the Plaee no man 

may know. 
A she-wolf prowled about the spot, and sniffed 

below the sleigh, 
And howled a melancholy howl, and slunk in 

fear away. 



37 



Songs of the Prairie 



JUST BE GLAD 

Feelin' kind of all run down? 

Mighty bad: 
Sick and tired o' life in town? 

Don't be sad : 
What you're needing isn't rest: 
Square your shoulders, raise your chest; 
Pack your turkey ; go out West — 

Just be glad! 

Gone astray in No-Man's-Land? 

Silly lad! 
Ought to have your carcass tanned 

With a gad: 
Should ha' kept the narrow track: 
Never mind, you can't go back; 
Things may not be quite so black — 

Just be glad! 

Gone and blown in all your cash 

On a fad? 
Livin' now on soup and hash? 

Writin' Dad? 

38 



Songs of the Prairie 



Don't you do it. I lerc's a tip ; 
Keep a good stiff upper lip ; 
Needn't fall because you slip — 
Just be glad! 

Friends refuse to help you out? 

Don't get mad ! 
You would be a lazy lout 

If they had. 
Do not envy place or pelf; 
Praise the Lord, you've got your health ; 
Dig in! Be a man yourself — 

Just be glad! 

All the world may say or do, 

Good or bad, 
Isn't anything to you — 

Just be glad! 
Though you work at book or trade, 
Though you work with pen or spade, 
Hump yourself — you'll make the grade — 

Just be glad! 



39 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE CANADIAN ROCKIES 

(Lines suggested in the camp of the Alpine 
Club of Canada, Shcrbrooke Lake, B. C, 
August, 191 1.) 

"I to the hills will lift mine eyes," 

Of old the Psalmist sung, 
And we who clutch the worldly prize, 

With Earth's distractions wrung, 
Still turn our fevered fancy's gaze 

Where snowy summits greet the day, 
Where Nature guards her mysteries, 

And Time becomes Eternity 

Where, changeless in eternal change, 

The Rockies clip the clouds, 
And glacial lakes and granite range 

Sleep, in their snowy shrouds; 
Where silence hushes discontent, 

And petty fears are lost in space, 
The Builder of the firmament 

Still meets His people, face to face! 

40 



Songs of the Prairie 



O barren cares that bitter life, 
O hopes unwisely dear, 

fruitless fallacy and strife, 
O social, sham veneer! — 

1 to the hills will lift mine eyes, 

Where mantling cloud or cornice clings, 
To catch a glimpse of paradise, 
And turn again — to little things! 



4i 



Songs of the Prairie 



A PRAIRIE HEROINE 

They were running out the try-lines, they were 
staking out the grade; 

Through the hills they had to measure, through 
the sloughs they had to wade ; 

They were piercing unknown regions, they were 
crossing nameless streams, 

With the prairie for a pillow and the sky above 
their dreams, 

They were mapping unborn cities in the age- 
long pregnant clay : 

When they came upon a little mound across the 
right-of-way. 

There were violets growing on it, and a butter- 
cup or two, 

That whispered of affection ever old and ever 
new, 

And a little ring of whitewashed stones, bright 
in the summer sun, 

But of marble slab or granite pile or pillar there 
was none; 

42 



Songs of the Prairie 



And across the sleeping prairie lay a little, low- 
built shack, 

With a garden patch before it and a wheat field 
at its back. 

"Well, boys, we'd better see him, and he hadn't 

ought to kick, 
For we'll give him time to move it if he does 

it pretty quick." 
But scarcely had the foreman spoke when straight 

across the farm 
They saw the settler coming with a rifle on his 

arm; 
Some would ha' hiked for cover but they had 

no place to run, 
But most of them decided they would stay and 

see the fun. 

The farmer was the first to speak: "I hate to 

interfere, 
And mighty glad I am to see the railway comin' 

near, 
But before you drive your pickets across this 

piece of land 
You ought to hear the story, or you will not 

understand : 

43 



Songs of the Prairie 



It's the story of a girl who was as true as she 

was brave, 
And all that now remains of her is in that little 

grave. 

"I didn't want to bring her when I hit the trail 

out West, 
I knew I shouldn't do it, and I did my level 

best 
To coax her not to come out for a year or two 

at least, 
But to stay and take it easy with her friends 

down in the East; 
But while I coaxed and argued I was feelin' 

mighty glum, 
And right down in my heart I kep' a-hopin' she 

would come. 

"Well, by rail and boat and saddle we got out 

here at last, 
A-livin' in the future, and forgettin' of the past; 
We built ourselves a little home, and in our 

work and care 
It seemed to me she always took what was the 

lion's share; 

44 



Songs of the Prairie 



God knows just what she suffered, but she hid 

it with a smile, 
And made out that she thought I was the only 

thing worth while. 

"She stood it through the summer and the warm, 

brown days of fall, 
And of all the voices calling her she would not 

hear the call ; 
But when the winter settled with its cold, white 

pall of snow 
She seemed to whiten with it, but she thought 

I didn't know ; 
She tried to keep her spirits up and laugh my 

fears away, 
But I saw her growing thin and ever weaker 

day by day. 

"At last I couldn't stand it any longer, so I 

said, 
'I think you'd better try and spend a day or two 

in bed 
While I go for a doctor. It's only sixty miles.' 
She gave a little wistful look, half hidden in her 

smiles, 

45 



Songs of the Prairie 



And said, 'Perhaps you'd better, though I think 

I'll be all right 
When the spring comes.' . . . Well, I started 

out that night. 

"I made the trip on horseback, by the guiding 

Polar star 
And a dozen times the distance never seemed 

one half so far. 
But the doctor had gone out of town, — just 

where, no one could say, 
And a lump rose in my chest that fairly took 

my breath away. 
But I daren't stay there thinking, and my search 

for him was vain, 
So I bought some wine and brandy and I started 

home again. 

"Forgetful of my horse, I spent the whole night 

on the road, 
Till early in the morning he collapsed beneath 

his load; 
I saw the brute was done for, and although it 

made me cry, 
I hacked into his jug'lar vein and left him there 

to die; 

4 6 



Songs of the Prairie 



And then I shouldered the supplies and stag- 
gered on alone, 

And thinking of my wife's distress I quite forgot 
my own. 

"She must ha' watched all night for me, for in 

the morning grey 
She saw me stagger in the snow and fall beside 

the way 
And God knows how she did it — she was only 

skin and bone — 
But she came out here and found me and dragged 

me home alone, 
And she took the precious liquor that had cost 

us all so dear, 
And poured it down this worthless hulk that's 

standin' blatin' here. . . . 

"I guess you know what happened — I lived, she 

passed away; 
I robed her in her wedding-dress and laid her in 

the clay; 
And every spring I plant the flowers that grow 

upon her grave, 
For I hold the spot as sacred as the Arima« 

thaen's cave; 

47 



Songs of the Prairie 



And when the winter snows have come, and 

all is white and still, 
I spread a blanket on the mound to keep out 

frost and chill. 

"Folks say I've got a screw loose, that I've gone 

to acting queer, 
But I sometimes hear her speaking, and I know 

she's always near; 
And sometimes in the night I feel the pressure 

of her hand, 
And for a blessed hour I share with her the 

Promised Land: — 
Let man or devil undertake to desecrate my dead 
And as sure as God's in heaven I will pump him 

full of lead." 

They were rough-and-ready railway men who 

stood about the spot, 
They were men that lied and gambled they were 

men that drank and fought, 
But some of them were sneezing, and some were 

coughing bad, 
And some were blowing noses on anything they 

had; 

48 / 



Songs of the Prairie 



And some of them were swallowing at lumps 

that shouldn't come, 
And some were swearing softly, and some were 

simply dumb. 



At last the foreman found his voice: "I guess 

your claim is sound ; 
I wouldn't care to run a track across that piece 

of ground. . . . 
We'll have to change our lay-out . . . but I hope 

... we have the grace 
To build a fitting monument to mark that holy 

place ; 
Put me down for a hundred; now, boys, how 

much for you?" 
And they answered in a chorus, "We'll see the 

business through." 



The passengers upon a certain railway o'er the 

plain 
See a shining shaft of marble from the windows 

of the train, 

49 



Songs of the Prairie 



But they do not know the story of the girl-wife 
in the snow 

And the broken-hearted farmer with his lonely 
life of woe, 

And none of them have guessed that the deflec- 
tion in the line 

Is the railway builders' tribute to a prairie 
heroine. 



50 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE SEER 

In the dingy dust of his deerskin tent sat the 

chief of a dying race, 
And the lake that lapt at his wigwam door threw 

back a frowning face, 
And a sightless squaw at the centre-pole crooned 

low in a hybrid speech, 
When a man of God swept round the point and 

landed on the beach. 

The heavy eyes grew bright with fire, the lips 

shaped to a sneer — 
"Welcome, my paleface brother, what good news 

brings you here? 
Are you come with the voice of healing, with 

the book of your blameless breed, 
To soothe my soul with comfort while my body 

gnaws with need? 

"Welcome, O paleface brother ; come, what have 

you to fear? 
Mayhap the redskin chieftain can teach as well 

as hear; 

5i 



Songs of the Prairie 



And while we sing your sacred songs and breathe 

your mystic prayer, 
Who knows what inspiration may come on the 

ev'ning air? . . . 

"Listen ; you are a scholar, schooled in the pale- 
face lore: 

Tis said a dying saint may somtimes see the 
shining shore; 

That closing eyes peer far beyond the realm of 
mortal sight, — 

Who knows but that a dying race may read the 
road aright? 

"A dying race! We know it; the land is ours 

no more, 
No more we roam the prairies as in the days 

of yore ; 
The brave, free spirit that was ours is crushed 

and passed away, 
And bodies without spirits are predestined to 

decay. 

"No matter. In the summertime the flowers 

bloom in the grass, 
The startled insects flood the fields and chirrup 
as you pass, 

52 



Songs of the Prairie 



The birds sing in the bushes ; but before the 

wintry blast 
The flowers and the insects and the little birds 

are past. 

"Yet once again the spring will come, the flowers 

will bloom again, 
And insects chirrup blithely where the former 

ones are lain; 
The white snows of the wintertime will vanish 

in the heat, 
And out-door life and color will follow their 

defeat. 

"Can the paleface read the riddle? Has he eyes 

to see the signs? 
Or thinketh he that snow will lie forever on the 

pines ? 
That housed-up life can triumph for the mastery 

of state, 
Or cushioned chairs produce a race destined to 

dominate p 

"Behold, the things your hands have done, the 

power your arts have won — 
Behold, those things shall vanish as the snow 

before the sun ; 

53 



Songs of the Prairie 



The snow that smothered out the red — ah, hear 

it if you can — 
Shall leave the earth as suddenly, and leave it 

brozvn and tan. 

"Hear ye a little lesson — surely ye know its 

worth — 
Only an out-door nation can be master of the 

earth ; 
Soon as ye seek your couches, soft with the spoils 

of trade — 
See well to your outer trenches before the mines 

are laid ! 

"Hear ye a little lesson — can ye the truth 

divine? 
Milk ye may mix with water, and water will 

mix with wine; 
Mix as ye may on your prairies, mix in your 

hope, and toil, 
But know in all your mixing that water won't 

mix with oil!" 

In the dingy dusk of his deerskin tent sat the 

chief of a dying race, 
And the glow of holy prophecy lit up his rugged 

face, 

54 



Songs of the Prairie 



And the foremost light of the setting sun fell 

far on an eastern land, — 
And who shall save the paleface if he will not 

understand ? 



55 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE SON OF MARQUIS NODDLE 

He is brand-new out from England and he 

thinks he knows it all — 

(There's a bloomin' bit o' goggle in his eye) 

The "colonial" that crosses him is going to get 

a fall — 

(There's a seven-pound revolver on his thigh). 

He's a son of Marquis Noddle, he's a nephew 

of an earl, 
In the social swim of England he's got 'em all 

awhirl, 
He's as confident as Csesar and as pretty as a 
girl- 
On, he's out in deadly earnest, do or die. 

They will spot him in the cities by the cowhide 
on his feet — 
(They were built for crushing cobblestones 
at 'ome) 
And the giddy girls will giggle when they see 
him on the street — 
(There's a brand-new cowboy hat upon his 
dome). 

56 



Songs of the Prairie 



He has come from home and kindred to the 

land beyond the sea, 
To the far-famed land of plenty, to the country 

of the free, 
But he can't forget he owns it from Cape Race 

to Behring Sea — 
He is coming just as Caesar would to Rome. 



When his pile is getting slender he'll go looking 
for a job, 
(And he thinks he ought to get it, don't-cher- 
know) 

But he finds that he must mingle with the com- 
mon city mob 
(How can they think that he would stoop so 
low?). 

So he hikes him to the country, where the rustics 
will be proud 

To salute him when they meet him, and to whis- 
per, nice and loud, 

"He's the son of Marquis Noddle, — you would 
know him in a crowd" — 

They will pay him there the homage that they 
owe. 

57 



Songs of the Prairie 



In the little country village he will manufacture 

mirth — 
(For it's there they take the measure of a 

swell) 
They will soon proceed to teach him that he 

doesn't own the earth 
(With a quit-claim on the sun and moon as 

well). 
They will show him that the country isn't alto- 
gether slow, 
And that they can travel any pace that he's a 

mind to go ; 
He will be a right good fellow till they run him 

out of dough — 
Oh, it is a tale of merriment they tell! 

So to keep his bones together he goes working 
on a farm, 
(Where they get up at a little after two) 

Where they think to take him down a peg will 
not do him any harm, 
(And they sleep when there is nothing else to 
do). 

Where they work him like a nigger nearly twenty 
hours a day, 

And they don't disguise the fact that they con- 
sider him a jay, 

58 



Songs of the Prairie 



And he eats so much and sleeps so much he isn't 
worth his pay — 
Oh, it doesn't matter that his blood is blue. 

He decides to do a season as a cowboy in the 
West, 
(Where they call a man a boy until he's dead) 
And he tries to walk a-swagger with a military 
chest, 
(And he isn't overslept or overfed). 
They will set him breaking bronchos, though it's 

little to his mind; 
With many new-learned epithets he'll perforate 

the wind — 
How can he know the boys have stuck a thistle 
on behind? 
He will end the exhibition on his head. 

They will fill him full of liquor that'll frizzle 
his inside, 
(In the cooler he can square it with his God). 
He will spend his nights in places where the 
demi-monde reside, 
(In the morning he'll be minus watch and 
wad). 

59 



Songs of the Prairie 



They'll abuse him as a youngster, they will mock 

him as a man, 
They'll make his life a thorny path in every way 

they can, 
Till he curses his existence and the day that it 

began, 
And he wishes he was rotting in the sod. 

He will write long tales to England, tales of 

bitterness and woe, 

(They will print 'em in the papers over there). 

He will tell them pretty nearly everything he 

doesn't know, 

(And they'll take it all for gospel over there). 

He will tell them that the country isn't fit for 

gentlemen, 
That any who escape from it do not come back 

again, 
He is handy with his language and he wields a 
bitter pen — 
To the truth of each assertion he would swear. 

He's a growler, he's a growser, he's a nuisance, 

he's a bum, 
(And the country hasn't any room for such) 
And they class him in the papers as "European 

scum," 

60 



Songs of the Prairie 



(They would rather have the Irish or the 
Dutch). 
He's the butt of every jester, he's the mark of 

every joke, 
He is wearing borrowed trousers-— he has put 

his own in soak — 
He's a useless good-for-nothing, beaten, buffeted, 
and broke, 
And of sympathy he won't get over-much. 



In a dozen years you'll find him with a section of 

his own, 
(He had to learn his lesson at the start) 
With a happy wife and children he is trying to 

atone — 

(For he loves the country now with all his 
heart). 
He's a son of dear old England, he's a hero, 

he's a brick; 
He's the kind you may annihilate but you can 

never lick, 
For he played and lost, and played and lost, and 
stayed and took the trick ; 
In a world of men he'll play a manly part. 
61 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE PRODIGALS 

Knee-deep our prairies link the seas, 

Flood-full our voiceless rivers wend; 
We hold unturned the larder keys 
On which the future years depend : 

And shall we suffer alien throngs 
Usurp the land to us belongs? 

What though we are to fortune born 

And all our paths are paved with gold? 
We flaunt our folly up to scorn, 
Because we keep not what we hold : 

Why should we rob our right of birth 
To foster all the breeds of earth? 



We picture with unfeigned dismay 
Man-glutted lands of other flags, 
They multiply but to decay, 
And rot in pestilence and rags ; 

Why hasten we to emulate 
These helpless tragedies of Fate? 

62 



Songs of the Prairie 



The land our children's sons will need, 
That land we have wide open thrown 
To heathen knaves of other breed 
And paunchy pirates of our own: 

We give away earth's greatest prize, 
And pat ourselves, and call us wise. 

No father he who to the slums 

For husband to his child would send, 
And no one worthy of her conies 
She lives a maiden to the end: 

Yet we have placed our virgin trust 
In spawn of Continental lust. 

If dumb we be to Reason's cries — 

Our children's cause she pleads in vain- 
Our outraged sons at length will rise 
And seize their heritage again; 

And fools, who prate of vested right, 
Will either cease to prate — or fight. 

The land is ours, the land will keep, 
And Time is nowise near its end; 
We hold our birthright all too cheap 
Its sacredness to comprehend ; 

In after years our sons will say, 
"Why frittered ye the land away?" 

63 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE SQUAD OF ONE 

Sergeant Blue of the Mounted Police was a 

so-so kind of a guy ; 
He swore a bit, and he lied a bit, and he boozed 

a bit on the sly ; 
But he held the post at Snake Creek Bend for 

country and home and God, 
And he cursed the first and forgot the rest — 

which wasn't the least bit odd. 

Now the life of the North West Mounted Police 

breeds an all-round kind of man; 
A man who can jug a down-South thug when 

he rushes the red-eye can; 
A man who can pray with a dying bum or break 

up a range stampede — 
Such are the men of the Mounted Police and 

such are the men they breed. 

The snow lay deep at the Snake Creek post and 

deep to east and west, 
And the Sergeant had made his ten-league beat 

and settled down to rest 

6 4 



Songs of the Prairie 



In his two-by-four that they called a "post," 

where the flag flew overhead, 
And he took a look at his monthly mail, and this 

is the note he read : 

"To Sergeant Blue of the Mounted Police at the 

post of Snake Creek Bend, 
From U. S. Marshal of County Blank, greetings 

to you, my friend, 
They's a team of toughs give us the slip, though 

they shot up a couple of blokes, 
And we reckon they's hid in Snake Creek Gulch 

and posin' as farmer folks. 

"They's as full of sin as a barrel of booze and 

as quick as a cat with a gun. 
So if you happen to hit their trail be first to 

start the fun; 
And send out your strongest squad of men and 

round them up if you can, 
For dead or alive we want them here. Yours 

truly, Jack McMann." 

And Sergeant Blue sat back and smiled, "Ho, 

here is a chance of game ! 
Folks 'round here have been so good that life is 

getting tame; 

65 



Songs of the Prairie 



I know the lie of Snake Creek Gulch — where I 

used to set my traps — 
I'll blow out there to-morrow and I'll bring 

them in — perhaps." 

Next morning Sergeant Blue, arrayed in farmer 

smock and jeans, 
In a jumper sleigh he had made himself set out 

for the evergreens 
That grow on the bank of Snake Creek Gulch 

by a homestead shack he knew, 
And a smoke curled up from the chimney-pipe 

to welcome Sergeant Blue. 

"Aha, and that looks good to me," said the 

Sergeant to the smoke, 
"For the lad that owns this homestead shack is 

East in his wedding-yoke; 
There are strangers here and Til bet a farm 

against a horn of booze 
That they are the bums that are predestined to 

dangle in a noose." 

So he drove his horse to the shanty door and 

hollered a loud "Good-day," 
And a couple of men with fighting-irons came 

out beside the sleigh, 

66 



Songs of the Prairie 



And the Sergeant said, "I'm a stranger here and 

I've driven a weary mile ; 
If you don't object I'll just sit down by the 

stove in the shack awhile." 

So the Sergeant sat and smoked and talked of the 
home he had left down East, 

And the cold, and the snow, and the price of land, 
and the life of man and beast, 

But all of a sudden he broke it off with, "Neigh- 
bors, take a nip? 

There's a horn of the best you'll find out there 
in my jumper, in the grip." 

So one of the two went out for it, and as soon 

as he closed the door 
The other one staggered back as he gazed up the 

nose of a forty-four, 
But the Sergeant wasted no words with him, 

"Now, fellow, you're on the rocks, 
And a noise as loud as a mouse from you and 

they'll take you out in a box." 

So he fastened the bracelets to his wrists and 
his legs with some binder-thread, 

And he took his knife and he took his gun and he 
rolled him onto the bed ; 

6 7 



Songs of the Prairie 



And then as number two came in he said, "If 

you want to live, 
Put up your dukes and behave yourself or I'll 

make you into a sieve." 



And when he had coupled them each to each, 
and laid them out on the bed, 

"It's cold, and I guess we'd better eat before we 
go," he said. 

So he fried some pork and he warmed some 
beans, and he set out the best he saw, 

And they ate thereof, and he paid for it, accord- 
ing to British law. 



That night in the post sat Sergeant Blue with 

paper and pen in hand, 
And this is the word he wrote and signed and 

mailed to a foreign land: 
"To U. S. Marshall of County Blank, greetings 

I give to you; 
My squad has just brought in your men, and 

the squad was 

"Sergeant Blue." 

68 



Songs of the Prairie 



There are things unguessed, there are tales un- 
told, in the life of the great lone land, 

But here is a fact that the prairie-bred alone may 
understand. 

That a thousand miles in the fastness the fear 
of the laiu obtains, 

And the pioneers of justice were the "Riders of 
the Plains:' 



69 



Songs of the Prairie 



ALKALI HALL 

When Lord Landseeker came out West to have 

a look around, 
And spend a little money if the right thing could 

be found, 
He hadn't breathed the prairie air more than a 

day or two 
Until he was the centre of a philanthropic crew 
Who sought to show His Lordship all the short- 
cuts to success 
(Though why they should have troubled, His 

Lorship couldn't guess, 
For each was losing money, as he candidly 

confessed, 
Which seemed to be a fashion with the dealers 

in the West). 

Thus His Lorship grew suspicious that his 

"friends" would turn him down, 
And he quietly bought a ticket to a little country 

town; 

70 



Songs of the Prairie 



Bait he didn't know the message that was flashed 

along the wire 
To a simple country dealer in the land of his 

desire ; 
And it read: "Look out for Goggles, he'll be 

with you this a. m." 
And the crowd around the station — well, he 

merely smiled to them, 
And thought it jolly decent they'd assemble, 

don'tcherknow, 
And file along behind him as they followed, in 

a row. 

The snow had fallen softly all the calm Novem- 
ber night, 

And the morning found the prairies with a cover- 
ing of white ; 

But His Lordship took a citizen who "happened" 
in his way, 

And they drove into the country for the most 
part of the day, 

Until they reached a section that was flat and 
free from stone, 

And the citizen remarked about a fellow he had 
known 

7i 



Songs of the Prairie 



Who offered thirty dollars for this section in 

the fall, 
But the owner wanted forty, or he wouldn't sell 

at all. 

Then His Lordship drove across it, and it 

seemed to catch his eye, 
And he whispered to the driver, "That's the 

section I will buy;" 
So in town they found the owner, who was very 

loath to sell, 
But he finally consented, if His Lordship wouldn't 

tell 
That the price was forty dollars by the acre ; this 

agreed, 
A lawyer drew the papers and His Lordship 

got the deed, 
And he sailed across the ocean with the satisfy- 
ing thought 
That he'd followed his own judgment in the 

bargain he had bought. 

The winter snows had vanished and the spring 

was growing late, 
When Lord Landseeker came again to view his 

real estate, 

72 



Songs of the Prairie 



And he drove out in a buggy to where his section 

lay, 
And his heart was very happy as he smoked 

along the way 
Till the section burst upon them, and he scarce 

believed his sight, 
For the land lay in the sunshine, flashing back 

a snowy white 

And His Lordship stooped and felt it, and he 

heaved a little sigh, 
As the knowledge dawned upon him that his, 

land was — alkali! 

His Lordship did some thinking as they jour- 
neyed back to town, 

And his wonted happy features were o'er- 
shadowed with a frown; 

But he neither crawled nor blustered, neither 
bluffed nor swore nor kicked, 

(For the men from little England never know 
when they are licked), 

But he advertised for tenders for construction 
on the land, 

And the buildings he erected were the best he 
could command ; 

73 



Songs of the Prairie 



With a hundred rooms for students, and quarters 

for the staff, 
And the workmen often wondered what made 

His Lordship laugh! 

In the papers of Old England there appeared 

a little ad, 
For the benefit of parents whose sons were going 

bad; 
"Teach your boys the art of farming in the great 

Canadian West; 
Our instruction is unrivalled, our curriculum 

the best; 
There's a grate in every chamber and a bath in 

every hall, 
And a full dress-suited dinner every ev'ning, 

free to all; 
There is tennis, polo, marksmanship, and half 

the day in bed, 
And we make them into farmers for a hundred 

pounds a head." 

His Lordship's college prospers and is crowded 
to the doors 

With "students" playing poker while the "ser- 
vants" do the chores ; 

74 



Songs of the Prairie 



What they do not know of farming they make 

up in other lines 
They are judges of tobacco and connoisseurs of 

wines ; 
They are experts at the races and at sundry 

other games — 
Though they couldn't tell the breeching of the 

harness from the hames — 
Though they're far from home and kindred they 

occasion no alarm, 
That was what their parents zvanted when they 

sent them out to farm. 



75 



Songs of the Prairie 



PRAIRIE BORN 

We have heard the night wind howling as we 

lay alone in bed; 
We have heard the grey goose honking as he 

journeyed overhead; 
We have smelt the smoke-wraith flying in the 

hot October wind, 
And have fought the fiery demon that came roar- 
ing down behind ; 
We have seen the spent snow sifting through 

the key-hole of the door, 
And the frost-line crawling, crawling, like a 

snake, along the floor; 
We have felt the storm-fiend wrestle with the 

rafters in his might, 
And the baffled blizzard shrieking through the 

turmoil of the night. 

We have felt the April breezes warm along the 

plashy plains ; 
We have mind-marked to the cadence of the 

falling April rains ; 

76 



Songs of the Prairie 



We have heard the crash of water where the 
snow-fed rivers run, 

Seen a thousand silver lakelets lying shining in 
the sun; 

We have known the resurrection of the Spring- 
time in the land, 

Heard the voice of Nature calling and the words 
of her command, 

Felt the thrill of springtime twilight and the 
vague, unfashioned thought 

That the season's birthday musters from the 
hopes we had forgot. 

We have heard the cattle lowing in the silent 

summer nights ; 
We have smelt the smudge-fire fragrance — we 

have seen the smudge-fire lights — 
We have heard the wild duck grumbling to his 

mate along the bank; 
Heard the thirsty horses snorting in the stream 

from which they drank; 
Heard the voice of Youth and Laughter in the 

long, slow-gloaming night ; 
Seen the arched electric splendor of the Great 

North's livid light; 

77 



Songs of the Prairie 



Read the reason of existence — felt the touch 

that was divine — 
And in eyes that glowed responsive saw the End 

of God's design. 

We have smelt the curing wheat fields and the 
scent of new-mown hay ; 

We have heard the binders clatter through the 
dusty autumn day; 

We have seen the golden stubble gleaming 
through the misty rain; 

We have seen the plow-streaks widen as they 
turned it down again; 

We have heard the threshers humming in the 
cool September night; 

We have seen their dark procession by the straw- 
piles' eerie light; 

We have heard the freight trains groaning, slip- 
ping, grinding, on the rail, 

And the idle trace chains jingle as they jogged 
along the trail. 

We have felt the cold of winter — cursed by 

those who know it not — 
We have braved the blizzard's vengeance, dared 

its most deceptive plot; 

78 



Songs of the Prairi* 



We have learned that hardy races grow from 
hardy circumstance, 

And we face a dozen dangers to attend a country 
dance ; 

Though our means are nothing lavish we have 
always time for play, 

And our social life commences at the closing of 
the day; 

We have time for thought and culture, time for 
friendliness and friend, 

And we catch a broader vision as our aspira- 
tions blend. 

We have hopes to others foreign, aims they 
cannot understand, 

We, the "heirs of all the ages," we, the first- 
fruits of the land; 

Though we think with fond affection of the 
shores our fathers knew, 

And we honor all our brothers — for a brother's 
heart is true — 

Though we stand with them for progress, peace, 
and unity, and power, 

Though we die with them, if need be, in our 
nation's darkest hour — 

79 



Songs of the Prairie 



Still the prairies call us, call us, when all other 

voices fail, 
And the call we knew in childhood is the call 

that must prevail. 



80 



Songs of the Prairie 



"A COLONIAL" 

(In some circles the term "colonial" is still al- 
lowed to imply inferiority and dependence.) 

Only a Colonial! 

Only a man of nerve and heart 

Who has spurned the ease of the life "at 
home," 
Only a man who would play his part 

In a new breed-birth on a distant loam; 
Only a man of sense and worth 
Who is not afraid of the ends of earth. 

Only a Colonial! 
Only a man who has cornered Fate 

And matched his strength with the Unat- 
tained ; 
Only the guard at the Outer Gate, 

Who holds for you what he has gained, 
That your children, seized of a better sense, 
May share with him Toil's recompense. 

81 



Songs of the Prairie 



Only a Colonial! 
Only a man who has bridged the deep, 

And stained the map a British hue, 
Who builds an Empire while ye sleep 

And deeds the ownership to you. 
Tis the Viking blood which gave you birth 
That has driven him to the ends of earth. 



Only a Colonial! 

Wherever the flag that ye think is great 

Is flown to the farthest winds that blow, 
Wherever the colonists ye berate 

In their blind faith-vision onward go, 
Ye may find ye hearts that are British still — 
In your self-conceit do ye count them nil? 



Only a Colonial! 
Rough as the bark of his forest tree 

His ways may seem to the fat and sleek, 
But ye owe your Empire to such as he, 

Though the hoar-frost glisten on his cheek; 
He has carried your flag where ye dared not go, 
And little ye reck of the debt ye owe. 

82 



Songs of the Prairie 



Only a Colonial! 

No doubt he is raw on your social laws 

And grates on your sense of caste and creed, 
But he lives too near to Facts and Cause 

To study heraldry and breed ; 
And, knowing man in his primal state, 
He scorns the claims of the social great. 

Only a Colonial! 

The name in cheap contempt ye fling, 

Is not the whim of birth or chance, 
We well ignore the flippant sting, 

Or charge it to your ignorance; 
The colonist, and sons of his, 
Have made the Empire what it is. 



83 



Songs of the Prairie 



LITTLE TIM TROTTER 

Little Tim Trotter was born in the West, 

Where the prairie lies sunny and brown ; 
Never was, surely, so welcome a guest 

In the stateliest halls of the town; 
For Little Tim Trotter was thoughtful and brave, 

And a lover of summer and shower, 
And Little Tim Trotter took less than he gave 

To the hearts that were under his power. 

Little Tim Trotter would play in the sun, 

Or lie in the buffalo grass, 
And in fancy he saw the wild buffalo run 

And the brave-riding Indians pass ; 
And with eyes that were deep as the infinite blue 

He would picture himself at their head, 
For no one so young as this hunter-man knew 

That the herds and the riders were dead. 

Little Tim Trotter would lie in his bed 

While the fire-light played low on the floor, 
And strange were the thought that in Little Tim's 
head 

84 



Songs of the Prairie 



Played low like the fire at the door ; 
The hopes that were his, and the wonders he 
knew, 

And the yearning he had in his heart, 
With the glimmering light of the future in view, 

And Little Tim just at the start! 

Little Tim Trotter has heard the long call 

And has answered with joy and surprise, 
And the thoughts and the things that are hid 
from us all 

To-day are revealed to his eyes ; 
And he rides in the van of his buffalo herd, 

Or in camp with his Indians brave; 
But Little Tim Trotter speaks never a word 

Through the mound of a little green grave. 



85 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE VORTEX 

He farmed his own half-section and was doing 
fairly well; 
There were seasons when the yield was rather 
small, 
But he always had his living and had always 
stuff to sell, 
And a little to his credit in the fall; 

But he wearied of his labor and he turned 

a wistful eye 
Where the City flashed its glamour on the 

stranger passing by ; 
He was sick of hogs and cattle — he was 
sick of barn and sty, 

And the City sucked him in. 

He was doing homestead duties — he was in his 
second year, 
And his quarter was the finest out-of-doors ; 
He'd a neighbor in the township — and they called 
that pretty near, 
And he only had to eat and do the chores ; 

86 



Songs of the Prairie 



Now he should have been contented with 

a kingdom of his own ; 
He'd a fiddle and a rifle and a "bally 

gramophone" . . . 
He was sick of isolation, sick of living 

there alone, 

And the City sucked him in. 

He owned a little country store and traded goods 
for eggs; 
He was salesman, buyer, manager and clerk; 
And the farmers gathered in his shop and sat 
around on kegs 
While they smoked and wised they didn't have 
to work; 

He was tired of tasting butter that he 

didn't dare condemn, 
He was tired of narrow farmers, he was 

tired of serving them. 
And he thought him of the City, where 
they close at six P. M., 

And the City sucked him in. 

He ran a country paper in the town of Easy-go, 
And he hustled news and helped to "dis" the 
"dead" ; 

87 



Songs of the Prairie 



He was editor and devil, he was master of the 
show, 
And the Union had no halter on his head ; 

But he couldn't raise his circulation over 

twenty quires, 
He was tired of washing rollers, he was 

tired of building fires, 
He was tired of eulogizing men he knew 
were mostly liars, 

And the City sucked him in. 



He practised law and real estate and owned a 
house and lot; 
He'd a client every once-awhile or so ; 
He drove into the country when the summer 
days were hot, 
Or in winter for a sleigh-ride in the snow ; 
He'd enough to live in comfort and he 

always paid his bills, 
But he tired of country customs and he 

wanted Fashion's frills ; 
He was sick of fire insurance, he was sick 
of drawing wills, 

And the City sucked him in. 

88 



Songs of the Prairie 



He'd a loyal congregation and his views were 
orthodox 
Though his salary was less than he was worth, 
He'd a personal regard for the future of his 
flocks, 
And he shared with them their sorrow and 
their mirth; 

But he longed for larger service and for 

bright companionship, 
And a stipend that would justify his wife 

to take a trip ; 
And he read his resignation and he packed 
his little grip, 

And the City sucked him in. 

She was just a country maiden with ambitions of 
her own, 
She could wash and she could churn and she 
could cook, 
But she longed for broader vision and a bigger, 
better zone, 
And she studied all about it in a book ; 

She'd a home and she had kindred, she'd 

a roof above her head, 
She had time for work and leisure, she'd 
a chance to love and wed ; 

89 



Songs of the Prairie 



But they saw her leave the village — they 
had better seen her dead — 

And the City sucked her in. 

Now there's one of them a millionaire and one 
of them in jail, 
And one of them is working on the street ; 
And one is washing dishes, and one has "hit the 
trail," 
For six have drunk the sorrows of defeat ; 
And one that's never spoken of where 

once she was supreme, 
And one — they found him floating in an 

eddy of the stream: 
They have paid the price of knowledge, 
they have dreamed their little dream : 
And the City sucked them in. 



90 



Songs of the Prairie 



THE OLD GUARD 

Knew you the men of the Old Guard? Men 

of the camp and trail; 
Guard of the van when Time began in the land 

of grass and gale, 
Of a sky-wide land they seized command where 

the mightiest prevail. 

Who were the men of the Old Guard? Giants 

of strength and will, 
Trained in the school of hard-luck rule and 

daring to die or kill ; 
Staking their lives, and their young, and wives, 

on the road up Fortune's hill. 

Whence were the men of the Old Guard? 

Heroes of '82; 
From swamp and ledge and ocean's edge they 

came to see and do, 
And they failed at first, and the land they cursed, 

but they stayed and struggled through. 

91 



Songs of the Prairie 



Hope of the men of the Old Guard? Little but 

hope was theirs ; 
With empty hand in an untried land they clutched 

at wheat and tares, 
And home at night by the wood-fire light was 

answer to their prayers. 

Way of the men of the Old Guard? What of 

their end and way? 
You may find their bones by the lime-white 

stones where the sun-dried sleugh-holes lay, 
For the Goddess Trade is a costly jade, and they 

were the the ones to pay. 

Joy of the men of the Old Guard? The joy of 

the brave and true ; 
With joy they paced where Death grimaced and 

his icy vapors blew, 
And with steady tread they bore their dead with 

the faith of the chosen few. 

What of the men of the Old Guard? Ask of the 

arching skies, 
The grass that waves on their leafy graves is 

lisping their lullabies, 
And the lives they spent are their monument 

and their title to Paradise. 

92 



Son^3 of the Prairie 



KID McCANN 

Where the farthest foothills flatten to a circle- 
sweeping plain, 

And the cattle lands surrender to the onward 
march of grain, 

Where the prairies stretch unbroken to the cor- 
ners of the sky, 

And the foremost wheat fields rustle in the warm 
winds droning by — 

There a crippled cowboy batches in the haunts 
of old-time herds, 

And the balance of the story is repeated in his 
words : 

So you never heard how I lost my leg and hobble 

now on a crutch? 
So far as the story relates to me it can't concern 

you much, 
For it's really the story of Kid McCann and the 

price that a girl will pay 
For the fellow she sets her fancy on, as only a 

woman may ; 

93 



Songs of the Prairie 



It isn't every girl who proves her faithfulness in 

flames, 
But fellows who listen with moistened eyes speak 

softly of other names. 
Ned McCann owned the Double Star 'way back 

in the early days; 
He had come out here with a sickly wife and a 

kid he hoped to raise 
Where the climate suited the feeble-lunged, but 

life was scarce at its brim, 
Till a little mound by a prarie hill held half of the 

world for him; 
And his double love would have spoiled the child 

had she been like me or you, 
But her only thought was for her dad and the 

mother she scarcely knew. 

'Course, she was bred to the ranges, and before 

she had reached her teens 
She could straddle a nag with the best of us and 

ride in her smock and jeans 
Till we all caved in, and she thought it fun to 

camp with the round-up bunch, 
And she shared her pillow and shared our sky and 

shared our pipe and lunch, 

94 



Songs of the Prairie 



And all of us mad in love with her, but she was 

only a kid, 
And she never dreamt what our feelings were, or 

the love-struck things we did. 

But even girls grow older, and, though always 

kind and sweet, 
There came a day when she realized that we were 

at her feet, 
But I had never spoken, nor anyone in the camp, 
When in came a foreign puncher, a thoroughbred 

black-leg scamp, 
And we who had known her since childhood saw, 

in our unbelieving eyes, 
This wily sinner setting himself to carry off the 

prize. 

Of course it couldn't be stood for, and little as I 

might like, 
It fell to my lot to intimate to him it was time to 

hike, 
Which I did in straightforward manner, in a 

way to be understood, 
And he looked at me with a sulky scowl that 

boded none of us good; 

95 



Songs of the Prairie 



But he did as he was ordered, to be absent before 

night, 
And we lost his form in the shadowy East as he 

cantered out of sight. 

Next day, as I rode on my cayuse, apart from the 

rest of the gang, 
I felt a sudden rip in my leg like the jab of a 

red-hot tang; 
And my horse went down below me, with my 

leg crushed in the clay, 
And over me leered that fiendish face, and he 

grinned, and rode away; 
Rode away to the eastward, — I saw him fade in 

the sky, 
And crushed and pinned from hip to heel I 

counted the hours to die. 

How long I lay I could never tell, for the hours 

were days to me, 
Till struck with sudden terror I tore at my 

wounded knee, 
For the east wind carried a smoky smell, and I 

read in its fiery breath 
That half-a-mile of sun-dried grass was all 

between me and death ; 

9 6 



Songs of the Prairie 



With my hunting-knife I hacked my leg, but I 

couldn't cut the bone, 
So I set myself as best I could to face my fate 

alone. 
The fire came on like a hungry fiend on the wings 

of the rising wind, 
And I wouldn't care to tell you all the things 

that were in my mind ; 
I saw the sun through the swirling smoke and 

the blue sky far above, 
And I bade good-bye to the things of earth and 

the dearer hopes of love; 
And I figured that I had closed accounts for life's 

uncertain span, 
When a smoke-blind broncho galloped up and 

there sat Kid McCann ! 

There wasn't much time for talking, with the 
death-roll in our ears, 

But we sometimes live in seconds more than we 
could in a thousand of years, 

And before I could guess her meaning she had 
thrown herself on my face, 

And spread her leather jacket, which her warm 
hands held in place; 

I felt her breath in my nostrils and her finger- 
tips in my hair, 

97 



Songs of the Prairie 



And through the roar of the burning grass I 
fancied I heard a prayer. 

'Twas but for a moment ; the flames were gone ; 

unharmed they had passed me by ; 
God knows why the useless are spared to live 

while the faithful are called to die, 
But the form that had sheltered me shivered, 

and seemed to shrivel away, 
And when I had raised it clear of my face I 

looked into lifeless clay. . . . 
And darkness fell, and the world was black, and 

the last of my reason fled, 
And when I came to myself again I was back at 

the ranch, in bed. 

That was back in the Eighties, and still I am 
living here; 

I built this shanty on the spot; her grave is 
lying near; 

And when at nights my nostrils sense the smoke- 
smell in the air 

I seem to feel her form again, and hear again 
her prayer; 

And then the darkness settles down and wild 
night-creatures cry, 

But stars come out in heaven and there's comfort 
in the sky. 

9 8 



Songs of the Prairie 



WHO OWNS THE LAND? 

Who owns the land? 

The Duke replied, 
"I own the land. My fathers died 
In winning it from foreign hands, 
They paid in red blood for their lands; 
Their swarthy villeins bit the dust 
In founding the Landowners' Trust; 
And many generations dead 
Substantiate what I have said, 
The land belongs to us because 
We've had the making of the laws." 

Who owns the land? 

The Common Man 
Said, "Government adopts a plan 
By which the land is held in fee 
For common folks, like you an' me. 
The man who'd alter it's a crank ; 
I got the transfer — in the bank — 
I've little time to think about 
These theories silly fellows shout, 
I have to work to beat the band 
To pay the mortgage on the land." 

99 



Songs of the Prairie 



Who owns the land ? 

The Stateman said, 
"The land supplies our daily bread, 
And raises wheat, and corn, and oats, 
And simple husbandmen — and votes — 
The land was won at awful cost 
And many soldiers' lives were lost. 
Too bad ! They're mostly silly boys 
Who go to battle for the noise. 
Here's a quotation I admire: 
'The people's voice is God's desire/ 
And as I rule by right divine, 
I half suspect the land is mine." 

Who owns the land? 

The Farmer said, 
"What puts that question in yer head? 
I own it. Tuk a homestead here 
An' lived on it fer twenty year; 
I bet a new ten dollar bill 
That I could hold it down until 
I got the patent, an' I won ; 
The land is mine, as sure's a gun. 
When city blokes come here to shoot, 
You bet, they get the icy boot! 

ioo 



Songs of the Prairie 



But 't made me mighty mad when that 
Danged railway come across the flat 
An' cut my homestead plumb in two, 
But there I wuz — what could I do? 
But jest set down, resigned to fate, 
Fer fear that they'd expropriate." 

Who owns the land? 

The Speculator 
Said, "Land is just an incubator 
In which to let your dollars hatch 
And, some fine morning — sell the batch." 

Who owns the land? 

The Indian Chief 
Said, "Ugh, the white man mucha thief! 
He steal my Ian' because he's strong 
(By gar, it take him pretty long), 
He steal my Ian', an' call it law, 
He turn me out, me an' my squaw ; 
He let us die, because we not 
Like him, can live in one same spot; 
He talk so much of civilize — 
He's civil — sometimes — an' he lies !" 

IOI 



Songs of the Prairie 



Who owns the land? 

The Over-Rich 
Said, "All these people claim to, which 
Is satisfactory to me, 
So long as they cannot agree. 
Let them arrange it as they will 
As long as some one pays the bill. 
The present plan is, surely, fine; 
The interest, at least, is mine!' 

Who owns the land? 

In meek surprise 
The child said, "Like the air, and skies, 
And running water, flowers, and birds, 
And lullabies, and gentle words, 
And rosy sunsets, clouds, and storms, 
And God revealed in all His forms — 
'Tis plain the land's the right of birth 
Of every creature on the earth: 
No man can make a grain of sand; 
How can he say he ozvns the land?" 



102 



Songs of the Prairie 



A RACE FOR LIFE 
(As related for the benefit of the New Arrival.) 

Yes, stranger, I hev trailed the West 

Since I wuz a kid on a bob-tailed nag, 
I hev known the old land at its best, 

An' packed most ev'ry kind of jag; 
I hev rode fer life frum a prairie fire, 

An' tramped fer life through a snow blockade ; 
I hev crumpled "bad men" by the quire, 

But only once hev I been afraid. 

I hev lain alone while the red-men crep* 

Aroun' me in their fightin'-paint ; 
I have soothed the widow while she wep' 

Because I'd made her man a saint; 
I hev lassooed lobsters frum the East, 

Till ev'ry j'int in their system shook, 
An' Fd never run frum man or beast 

Until I run frum a chinook. 

The chinook had his lair in Crow's Nest Pass, 
An' he foraged aroun' the Porcupine Hills, 

But he'd loafed so long that the ranchin' grass 
Had a wool-white cover frum the chills; 

103 



Songs of the Prairie 



An' me, like a chap that wuz not afraid 

Of anything with hide an' hair, 
Went out in a sleigh to the hills an' stayed 

Till the old chinook might find me there. 

At last, when I thought I had tempted fate 

Enough fer a man with a past like mine, 
I hitched the bronks an' struck a gait 

Along the slopes of the Porcupine ; 
An' the day wuz as cold as the Polar Sea, 

With a nip as keen as a she-wolf fang; 
But frost wuz just like food to me, 

An' boldly over the fields I sang: 

"I am the man frum the Hole in the Hills, 

Where the Great G. Whilikcn capers 'round; 
I am the gent that pays the bills 

When they plant a greenhorn in the ground; 
I am the Finish of folks that think 

They can run a bluff on the prairie-bred, 
Fer J give their vitals a fatal kink 

When I open up with a shower of lead." 

An' the cold bit into my nose an' chin, 
An' drilled itself to the marrow-bone; 

My face wuz drawn in a frozen grin, 

An' my fingers rattled like lumps of stone; 

104 



Songs of the Prairie 



But my heart wuz as brave as an outlaw stag, 
An' I laughed though the frost cut like a knife ; 

Till sudden I felt the hind bob drag, 
An' I kew I wuz in fer a race fer life. 

Out from his lair the sly chinook 

Had hunted me with his fatal breath; 
I dared not turn aroun' to look, 

Fer to strand on the hillside there wuz death ; 
The hot wind sizzled along my back, 

An' the sweat stood out on my shoulder-blade, 
So I yelled at the team through the frozen crack 

The roll of the tongue in my mouth had 
made — 

"Get out o' here ; by the Polar Star, 

The fiend of the South is on your heels!" 
An' I felt the old sleigh cringe an' jar, 

An' fer once I prayed — fer a pair o' wheels; 
But the sleigh stood still as the hind bob stuck 

In mud that rolled to the bolster-rail ; 
So I slipped the tongue an' cursed my luck 

As I straddled a bronk an' hit the trail. 

Well, we beat it out by half a neck, 

But the broncho's tail was scorched a sight, 
An' I wuz a blistered, parboiled wreck, 

An' nearly dead o' heat an' fright; 

105 



Songs of the Prairie 



An' I squatted down in a shady spot 
An' fanned myself with a wisp o' hay, 

An' the boys on the lower ranches thought 
They heard a voice in the chinook say : 

"I am the dope that was made to feed, 

To fresh down-East ers just come out; 
They 11 swallow it all in their greenhorn greed, 

An' send it home, beyond a doubt; 
I am the caricature an' bluff 

That is part of the play of the Western 
men" — 
What's that? You say you've had enough? 

Well, pass it on to your neighbor, then. 



106 



APR 22 1912 



lljIliiraiiuuuiiiiiiimiiiiHiiiiimiiiiiuiuiiiuiitiiMiuiiHi 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



014 703 996 7 



